Fail Me Fondly
by my-echo
Summary: The triumphant...well, almost...sequel to Tell Me Truly. Think the Opera REALLY got destroyed and Erick Spelled With A C Before The K is gone forever? HA! Think again!


**A/N: This particular piece of randomness is not, contrary to what some might think, aimed at any particular writer. Except for the running joke about the bunny, that is.**

**I mean, that's just wankable up the wall. **

**So, my point. If your character happens to be named one of the names skewered here, Yours Truly is not skewering **_**you**_** personally, but mainly the idea that those particular names are among the most overused, worn-out OC names in fanfictional existence.**

**On with the Parody!**

**(Sequels are never as good, I might warn you. And I didn't even really try all that hard with this one, as you'll see.**

**But it was loads of fun to write.**

**And that's really all that matters.)**

* * *

You may have heard of a random explosion which took place at the famed Opera Populaire-Palais-Garnier some months ago. 

You may also have heard that all those inside perished and were never seen or heard from again.

Well.

This was not _strictly _true.

In fact, the Opera Populaire-Palais-Garnier magically rebuilt itself, like some sort of time-altered zombie building, and the people inside who were _not_ from the twentieth or twenty-first centuries were right as rain in a week or two, barring some conspicuous ash-stains on their clothes.

All except Kristine, of course, who, as we know, had been tragically eaten by piranhas in the underground swimming-pool.

At any rate.

Remember Erick?

The Phatnom?

Yes, that one.

It just so happened that he was planning on boldly espying Carlotta today, who had somehow become more than slightly attractive to him ever since he had caught her bathing in the park fountain nude. Nobody much cared that she was exposing her assets in such a public place. She was Spanish, after all. Or…or…Italian. So she had an excuse.

But today was not to be Erick's day for a relaxing bout of voyeurism behind Carlotta's dressing-room mirror. (Yes, in fact he had built one _there_ too. Conveniently.)

Terrors were in store. _Major _terrors. Leik, we're talking...okay, fine, we won't bother you anymore.

In any event, on his way to the Upper World, he was suddenly confronted by a petite little specimen who seemed to be either thirteen, a midget, or both.

Erick glanced about nervously. "You…you're not from the twentieth century, are you?" he asked, the tips of his fingers trembling. Her clothes _seemed _to be period-appropriate, but they were a tad scandalous even so, and one could never be sure after the last little fiasco up in Box Five.

"No," said the little baggage, her eyes suddenly changing eerily from green to purple.

Erick twitched. "The twenty-first?" he asked cautiously, just to make absolutely sure.

"No," said the Small One, her hair glowing a fiery red when only a moment ago it had been a deep, lustrous black. Like the feathers of a raven and so forth.

Erick's eyes darted. "Who are you?" he whispered, not sure he dared to know the answer.

"Bunny-Bambi-Susie-Pop," said the girl, and giggled so loud and so high-pitched that somewhere, a glass cracked.

"No," she continued, sighing. "Just joking. My name is _so _boring and predictable. It's Genevieve. I mean, what female OC worth their salt _doesn't_ have a moniker like _that_?"

"I…beg your pardon?" Erick choked, feeling walls closing in around him, though the space surrounding his body was actually quite ample, considering the catacomb-like nature of the tunnels.

"Sure, it's a beautiful name," sighed the Small One, "when you haven't seen it been used about a hundred bazillion times. I mean, for real, why _couldn't _I have been named Bunny-Bambie-Susie-Pop, like I wanted? I _told_ my authoress to use that name. I _begged_ her to use it. But she thought people would laugh at her."

Genevieve glared at Erik suddenly.

"PEOPLE LAUGH AT HER ANYWAY!" she shouted.

Erick fumbled for his lasso, but couldn't seem to get his suddenly slippery fingers around it.

Genevieve sighed, putting a hand up and sheathing and unsheathing her frighteningly long fingernails absently as she gazed through them at something unseen.

"I mean," she said airily, "being a Cat-Person who's probably going to be transferred to Hogwarts within a week anyway in some other fic, you'd think that I would at least get a decent name, something _unique_ for a change. Even if it _does_ make people laugh their arses off."

Her lower lip trembled, and she began spilling tears out of her quivering eyes. (No Joke. Her eyeballs were _literally_ quivering, and I've _seen_ people do it, so don't you _dare_ contradict me, you fools…I mean...ahem.

Harrumph.

'Scuse me.)

"Why does everybody make people like me?" she wailed. "Why couldn't I have been a well-thought-out character with _normal_ hopes, and dreams, and ideals? Why did I have to get stuck with a nowhere name like Genevieve?"

"P…perhaps…" ventured Erick timidly, fearing for his life if he spoke any louder.

Genevieve ignored him. "Why couldn't I be more like Emina from _Enigmatic Darkness_? Or Catherine in _Buds Bursting Into Bloom_?Or…or Tora from…"

There was suddenly a dangerous cough from somewhere up above.

Both parties stared at the ceiling, where a tiny bit of pink glitter was randomly floating.

"I wouldn't," said the voice. "mention _that _one if I were you. That's what's known as a 'shameless plug.'"

Genevieve scowled.

"Like anybody's going to get it anyway," she said. "Except for people who actually _read_ 'The Opera Wench.'"

"Shut up, you!" said the voice quickly. "D'you think I want my readers thinking I'm some sort of ego-maniac, you trollop? Stop mentioning The Opera Wench! Or anything thus associated with it!"

Genevieve sighed. "Tora Tora Tora Tora Tora _Tora_ TORA," she chanted maddeningly.

"I give up," screamed the voice, and there was an audible POOF as the pink glitter disappeared.

"Why pink glitter, anyway?" asked Genevieve. "Isn't that more my style than yours?"

There was another POOF as the pink returned, this time in floating ribbons.

"Maybe I _like_ pink," said the voice ominously. "Ever think of that? And so what if I do, anyway? I like black, too, I'll have you know. And blood-red. But WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH LIKING PINK??"

Genevieve flinched. Erick seemed frozen in place, his mouth open, his eyes wide in an unfathomable expression of madness and animal-like despair.

"Oh," said the voice cheerily, "before I forget. Here's your twin sister, Arianna. Have fun, _Erick._"

And with another pink POOF, Arianna appeared, her skin shining like the moon, her hair a lustrous raven-black just as her sister's had previously been.

"Ariannabunnykins," screamed Genevieve, and the two hugged like poodles at a wine-tasting. Well…not really, because that brings rather lesbian images to mind, and gaycest isn't one of the topics being skewered on a spit in this particular installment.

So we won't go there.

"I heard about your troubles," sighed Arianna. "I don't mind so much, myself, except for my name. So common…so overused…so _tragic_, don't you think?"

She spoke much more slowly and breathily than her sister. Sighing was a large part of her speech.

"Well, yes, in fact," pouted Genevieve. "It just gets so _old_ after a while."

"You…you said _bunny_ again," shuddered Erick, rubbing at his arms as if to rid himself of some particularly wretched slime. "For the third time. Could you please refrain?"

Both looked at him.

"God, he's actually frightened of bunny rabbits," said Genevieve. "How cute is that?"

"Glompable?" breathed Arianna.

"Most definitely, now that _you're _here and I've got myself some confidence," said Genevieve. "On three…"

Erick did not know what _glompable_ meant, but he was sure it was something entirely unpleasant. It sounded like a form of sexual torture, and he was not at all sure he was in the mood for bondage or mucus.

Oh, yuckity.

At any rate, they glomped him. And we should note here that the verb "to glomp" _actually_ means to tackle, to fondly attack, to jump or leap upon in a kind of squeezing frenzy—oh, yes, and the verb "to squee" means…

"GET ON WITH IT!" shouted a body of soldiers dressed like Arthurian knights.

If you will excuse the random use of El Python del Monty.

And because the authoress of this whole thing got tired and felt like being a lazy bum, she'll just tell you that the IPFC appeared again and blew the whole Opera to hell and back—again.

Boring, huh.

She hopes you've gotten a relatively decent laugh out of this, though, and incidentally, she really only wrote it to get some more pet peeves out of her system for all the 'Net to see, so don't judge her _too_ harshly for not living up to your grand and wild expectations.

(Did you actually have any?)

* * *

_The End_

…

_One Might Be Persuaded To Think._


End file.
